


woke up in a safe house singing

by fragrant



Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime 1990)
Genre: First Kisses, Healing, M/M, Recovery, a sickfic of sorts!, tenderness TM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 07:20:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18987940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragrant/pseuds/fragrant
Summary: The first day of spring was tomorrow. Snufkin, for the first time he could remember, felt a cold worry over meeting Moomin. His dear—dearest, really—friend would, without a shadow of a doubt, certainly be upset to the point oftearsonce he saw the state of Snufkin.Snufkin sighed, and tossed another stick into the fire. He couldn’t get warm enough. He couldn’t quiet his mind. His tired fingers shivered. He tried not to think about what would happen upon meeting Moomin, or what had happened that same morning, when a bear had attacked him, leaving him lucky to still be alive.





	woke up in a safe house singing

 

 

 

The first day of spring was tomorrow. Snufkin, for the first time he could remember, felt a cold worry over meeting Moomin. His dear—dear _est_ , really—friend would, without a shadow of a doubt, certainly be upset to the point of _tears_ once he saw the state of Snufkin. 

Snufkin sighed, and tossed another stick into the fire. He couldn’t get warm enough. He couldn’t quiet his mind. His tired fingers shivered. He tried not to think about what would happen upon meeting Moomin, or what had happened that same morning, when a bear had attacked him, leaving him lucky to still be alive.

It had happened unnervingly fast, quicker than Snufkin’s carefulness. It was raining as he walked in the forest—his first mistake was walking in the drizzle, when the bear tracks he’d have normally seen were washed away into mud. 

And then he stepped on a bundle of twigs, and it turned out a grizzly somewhat twenty times his size, give or take, was sleeping on the higher rocky ground he’d been paralleling. 

The bear’s open jaws were bigger than him.

He didn’t often feel terror, but—but this time—

Snufkin _ran_. He couldn’t think, or feel anything a wave of something pounding in his blood. It wasn’t enough. The bear bounded after him once and trapped him under his giant paw, claws digging too hard into his torso. 

The bear spoke, and his voice was the stench of old bones. “This is my territory, wanderer. Disturbing me as I sleep. The nerve.”

Snufkin remembered, in a hazy thought somewhere in the fugue of blind panic, that the most ill-dispositioned, cantankerous, cruel and territorial monster was reputed to live in these woods. He’d priorly brushed it off as a folktale, unbelieving. 

Snufkin could barely think of what to say. What came out of his voice was only a strangled sort of noise. 

And the bear said, “I will let you live. But here is a warning to never disturb me again.”

After that Snufkin felt pain like he’d never felt before. A searing fire tearing through him, leaving him incomprehensibly bloody. It took a while for it to really sink in that he’d been deeply, longly scratched—swatted viciously by a paw with claws big as his face. 

The bear turned and lumbered back up, uninterested now. It was almost anticlimactic, if Snufkin could manage to find irony in it. He managed to crawl away, his pack aching on his back, a hurt over more hurt like a horrible sort of cake. Not the kind Moominmamma would make. He laughed wildly at the strange thought, thoughts blurry and clashing and halfway lapsing, too quick to catch, his heart desperate and panicked. His body took over, thoughts barely functioning. His body knew, fortunately, where the nearest stream was. 

There in the cold rushing water Snufkin lay for what seemed hours, before he hazily realised he needed medicine before all the life bled out of him. Somehow, with shudders wracking his entire body, he managed to extract his medicine from his pack and apply balm to himself. 

Then he fell unconscious, right there, beyond able to care if another monster came by to finish him off. 

But no monster came. Small mercies. 

When he woke it was twilight. In the blue light his reddened wounds, finally bruising and herb-scented sour, seemed awful. 

Snufkin did what he could to build a fire further away from the stream, and eat what he’d collected that same morning. 

And here he was now, eating normal stew by a normal fire like it was a normal night, like if he tried he could ignore the silent screeching of his own body’s pain. 

Snufkin’s eyes and cheeks had felt mildly wet for some hours. He didn’t cry that often, but he supposed that was what happened when your body felt overwhelmed. Mostly, now, he felt wrung out, too tired to wipe his face. 

Moominvalley was thankfully far away from this horrible forest. But he would be perhaps a week late, for he’d have to travel slower than usual now. 

Snufkin, alone in the forest, helplessly cried, frustrated at himself for crying, for being stupid enough to get attacked, for how his wound would in turn hurt Moomin when he saw it. 

 

* * *

 

The journey from there on was arduous. He made slow progress, but the pain of walking was at times more than he felt he could bear. He hardly thought about anything, exhausted and silenced just from the simple act of trying to move and stay alive. But worry coiled in his stomach, and became a constant presence, like the worst of companions. 

It was some stroke of luck—or compensation, more like—that he was disturbed no further. His days passed in nobody but him at all. Birds chirped at him and squirrels sniffed him, and Snufkin was far too spent to play his harmonica to them like he always did. That fact saddened him in a way he couldn’t shake off, which was almost funny given other far more distressing things that had happened. 

But somehow, miraculously, he passed the miles and nights. When he saw the familiar sight of Moominhouse, down the green slope he knew so well, Snufkin nearly collapsed there and then from relief. 

But he kept on doggedly walking. His dignity aside, it was rather embarrassingly more like _limping_. He felt like a caricature, self conscious but too teeth-grittingly aching to do anything about it. 

Moomin was on the porch, saw him, and began running towards him. Then stopped, as though trying to make sense of Snufkin from a distance. Then he began running towards him again, faster this time. Snufkin finally gave into the fear and worry, like the sensation of chilly fingers on his spine. Here, with Moomin before him, it felt like all his failures laid out and laughing and about to affect the person he cared about the most. 

Moomin stood before him now, panting slightly, wide eyes taking in his injury. 

And Snufkin was hyperventilating. His inhales were sharp. 

Moomin clearly had much to say, but he immediately opened his arms, and Snufkin fell into them. 

“It’s okay, Snufkin,” Moomin said, in a thick voice Snufkin couldn’t quite decipher, even if he’d been in a calmer place to do so. “You’re here now. I’m here. It’s, I’ll—I’ll take care of you. I’ll look after you, Snufkin—”

Snufkin was teary, foolishly, in a way he’d never, ever cried with Moomin. “I’m sorry,” he garbled. “Oh, Moomin. I missed you so much, and I’m sorry I got attacked, and—”

Moomin hugged him tighter, almost fiercely. “Hush,” he said. “You have nothing to apologise for. Snufkin, it’s okay. It’s okay. You can tell me what happened later. Let’s just get you inside, now.”

Snufkin managed to nod. He didn’t want to let go of Moomin, though. He was so warm, and soft, and Snufkin hadn’t had warmth or softness or kindness for a while. 

But as though sensing his reluctance, Moomin did something very unexpected. He picked Snufkin up, gently, carefully. 

At Snukin’s shocked face, Moomin said, “We Moomins are strong, you know. I’m still growing.”

“Ah,” said Snufkin faintly. 

Moomin carried him inside. All Snufkin’s exhaustion caught up with him there and then, as though finally sensing safe territory. He fell asleep somewhere on the walk towards and inside the house, barely registering the others’ exclaims, still in Moomin’s arms. 

 

* * *

 

He woke in the guest room on the upper floor, right next to Moomin’s room. There were clean bandages applied on his chest, and a blanket over him. Snufkin sat up slowly. The window’s light told him it was late afternoon.

His head hurt, and he absently held a hand to his temple. All things considered, he felt a lttle better. Not his body, particularly. But he _felt_ somewhat soothed. 

The meeting with Moomin had gone differently than what he’d expected. 

He had no time to think of it further: the door opened just then, and Moomin poked his head in. He was carrying a tray of soup. Snufkin, surprising himself, smiled wide at Moomin. He felt so _fond_. With Moomin, things had a way of seeming like they’d turn out fine. 

Moomin’s face was a bit red. He blustered, setting the tray down clumsily and fussing with the curtains, and unnecessarily said, “I brought soup.”

“I gathered,” teased Snufkin. Moomin didn’t laugh, like Snufkin had hoped he would; instead, his face was rather solemn. 

Moomin sat down. He looked down at his hands, like he didn’t know what to say. Then he finally quietly asked, “Will you tell me how you got attacked?”

Snufkin’s short-lived good mood fell at that, of course. But he told Moomin the whole story, because he owed it to him. Snufkin recounted the attack, trying to downplay the blind terror he’d felt, not at all mentioning the nights of a melancholy sense of helplessness, smallness, that had followed. 

Moomin was silent the whole time, carefully watching Snufkin with a miserable expression, only nodding to show he was listening. 

When he finished, Moomin softly said, “I always knew travelling was dangerous. But it never really sunk in. Not till now. How easily, how— close I could have come to losing you, all this time.”

Snufkin didn’t know what to say, but something in him broke down a little at Moomin’s averted eyes. “Moomin,” Snufkin tried. “I—it’s not—not normally so bad, not at all.”

“You’re the most experienced traveller I know,” Moomin burst out. Ah. Here, finally, was the emotional reaction Snufkin had dreaded. “If it’s not safe, even for you, then..,”

“Then what?” Snufkin replied, more unsettled and loud than he’d planned to be. “It’s what I do. It won’t change.”

Moomin mutinously looked up, ready to argue more. But as they locked eyes and held each other’s gaze, a ripple, a tingle of something passed through them. And Snufkin saw Moomin swallow, and nod, and _understand_. Something mature, tired, in his eyes. But accepting, too. 

“Okay,” said Moomin. He sounded calmer than how Snufkin felt. “Fine, Snufkin. But,” at this, a tone of pleading crept into his voice, “you’ll stay here in Moominhouse and let me take care of you till you’re better, won’t you?”

And Snufkin could not have said no, not at that tone, not at how much he knew he wanted the offer. He didn’t resist, even consider it. He only nodded. 

Moomin watched him, and again, Snufkin had trouble understanding his expression. Something a little yearning about it, though that didn’t quite make sense. 

Snufkin searched for something to say, feeling odd. He was normally the one who made any silence comfortable. But now he managed, “It’ll be just like when the comet came, and we slept in the same room. That was good fun.”

Moomin sighed heavily. “That was also the only year you stayed here all winter.”

Snufkin winced, and closed his eyes. So he’d brought the wrong thing up. 

“It’s okay,” said Moomin. He pushed the tray of soup towards Snufkin. “I’ll see to it you get better, that’s all. This is an old argument neither of us want right now. Just, just—have your soup.”

“Alright,” said Snufkin. Neither of them acknowledged the crack in Snufkin’s voice. 

 

* * *

 

As the days passed, they settled into a rhythm that Snufkin managed to get used to. Moomin changed his bandages every morning, and Snufkin could not deny the way his heartbeat quickened each time he saw Moomin bent over and tending his wounds with deep concentration and gentleness. All for _him_. Snufkin knew he was luckier than a tramp like him deserved. 

Little My visited each day, too, swinging her tiny legs on his bedpost. Mercifully, she played no pranks on him, and didn’t ask after his attack too much. But she did develop a habit of slyly alluding to how _nice_ it was of Moomin to watch over Snufkin, and wasn’t he _grateful?_ , till Snufkin felt torn between putting his red face in his hands and tossing his pillow at her. 

Mostly, he slept. Moominmamma spoiled him with good soup, the kind she knew he liked, and Moominpappa left a copy of his memoirs on on Snufkin’s bedside, just in case he happened to get bored. Snufkin flipped through the pages sometimes, mostly to look at the illustrations of the Joxter. He and Snufkin got along and liked each other from a sort of distance neither of them had crossed. It had been months since he’d seen his father; he wondered what the Joxter would say if he knew of Snufkin’s attack.

Snufkin didn’t know what he _himself_ thought of his attack. His mind knew those things happened, and he needn’t blame himself, but every time the memory surfaced it brought him a sickly sense of shame, unease. He’d never felt so powerless. There is nothing nice at all about the feeling of knowing other bigger creatures can beat you about as they please. 

One spring morning he sat on the hammock outside in the sweet breeze, with Moomin laying on the grassdew beside him. There was a checkered orange and white blanket over his knees, which Moomin had draped on him—ordinarily it would have made him feel stupid, but Moomin had looked so pleased to be of help Snufkin hadn’t the heart to remove it. 

He was thinking about how much he was at the mercy of the world, and how these days he did not quite like that knowledge as much as he used to. And looking at Moomin next to him, so serenely dozing, Snufkin had the sudden thought that Moominvalley too couldn’t possibly be as safe as it felt. If a monster as cruel as the bear ever wandered into it... Snufkin felt sick at the thought. A surge of protectiveness overcame him; if only he could wish for the Moomins to forever be safe. 

He thought, quietly, looking at Moomin’s closed, fluttering lashes: _I can’t wish for something so impossible. But I can do what I can to protect them, to help them—at least when I am here._

Suddenly, the notion of leaving every winter seemed at once irresponsible. There were people who loved him and cared for him right here, and he treated them like burdens needing freedom from. Was that not selfish of him?

He wanted to swear it right then, to wake up Moomin and shake him and promise to never leave again. But he knew it was a fleeting urge, it was a promise he would break, and to be so irresponsible with his words would cause more pain in the long run. 

He closed his eyes, chest tight and unhappy. If he stayed this winter, he would be too afraid to leave afterwards. The bigness of the world was already getting to him, and that fear would only grow if he let it. So he _couldn’t_ stay this winter, no matter the temptation; to let a single bad incident affect him enough to change his whole nature and course of life seemed unbearable. 

“Make no promises, Snufkin,” he murmured to himself, under his breath, so Moomin wouldn’t hear. 

 

* * *

 

The wound on his torso faded to a jagged white scar Snufkin hated—not because it was unflattering, or ruined his skin; he had plenty other minor scars. But each time he saw it, it reminded him of a moment he’d rather forget, a moment still haunting him. Futility, weakness, a scratching down on his soul—the moment had a thousand words, and all of those words spelled out: _Your little life isn’t yours as much as everyone else’s. Get too comfortable, and you’ll get hurt._

 

He took to bathing in darkness, and never taking his coat off, even in extreme heat. 

 

* * *

 

Moomin watched him with worried, big eyes, and said, “Something feels different.”

Snufkin cast out his fishing line, swatting away an errant branch as their boat floated down the stream. He kept his expression neutral. “Different about what, Moomintroll?”

In the sinking sunlight, bronzy and warm, Moomin looked beautiful. Snufkin only had a second to take in the thought, secret and barely self-acknowledged, before Moomin replied, “About _you_! I can’t put my finger on it.”

Snufkin said nothing. 

Moomin tentatively asked. “Is this about that bear hurting you?”

Snufkin nodded. If he couldn’t be honest with Moomin, he couldn’t be honest with anyone. 

Moomin looked upset—more with himself than with Snufkin—and seemed to be thinking about what to say to no avail. Snufkin said, so Moomin would be distracted, “How exactly am I different now, anyway?”

“You were always quiet, but in a happier way. Now, it’s... when you think no one’s watching you, your face goes... defeated. Like you’ve given up at something secretly. I don’t know.”

Snufkin felt his face reddening in embarrassment at Moomin’s words. 

“No, don’t—don’t look like that, Snufkin,” Moomin said, leaning forward and putting a hand on Snufkin’s arm. Snufkin’s skin burned where Moomin touched him; he gripped his fishing line tight. He felt unsteady in a way that wasn’t because of the boat they were on. 

Moomin continued, voice earnest, “You’re the most incredible person I know. That bear was only some awful creature who’ll live in those forests alone till he dies. He hurt you, but you’re still better off than him.”

Snufkin looked down and swallowed. “But there are ever so many creatures like him out there. The world doesn’t feel as safe anymore. Not like home. I hate it.”

“The world changes a lot. I know that, at least. It changes so much, you need... a second home too! Your other home is with—with Moominvalley,” Moomin jerkily said, like self-consciousness and shyness had caught up with him. “Always.”

Snufkin exhaled slowly. In mild disbelief at what he was doing, he put his second hand on top of Moomins. He felt he needed to. 

They sat there on the boat quietly, until it was dark and fireflies glowed at the riverbanks. 

And then Snufkin shifted, and rowed the boat home, glad Moomin could not make out his face. 

 

* * *

 

One afternoon his scar began to pain badly enough it made him grit his teeth and wince. Moomin insisted he lie down, to the point where he actually hauled Snufkin up the stairs and gently, yet bearing no nonsense, pushed Snufkin into bed. As Moomin rushed down again to get him a hot water bottle, Snufkin stared at the ceiling and wondered how on Earth he’d gotten to this point. 

When Moomin came back, Snufkin said, “There’s medicine. In my pack, if you can get it—”

Moomin shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, we have the same kind. You were the one that gave Mamma the herbs for it.”

“Ah,” said Snufkin, resting back on the pillow. “Right.”

Moomin handed him the hot water bottle. In his other hand he held a container, which he waved about. “I have that balm here. Should I put it for you, Snufkin?”

Snufkin’s mouth suddenly went somewhat dry. “Oh,” he said. “Well, alright, then.”

Moomin nodded. 

They looked at each other for a beat before Snufkin looked away and said, “I suppose I should remove my coat.”

Moomin nodded again, almost unsure, and studiously focused on unscrewing the small container. 

Snufkin gingerly removed his scarf and unbuttoned his coat. Below it he only wore a thin grey henley shirt that was probably white at some long-past point in time. 

Snufkin decided to leave the shirt on—it was enough to lift it while putting the balm. He lay down, holding his shirt up at an angle, and waited for Moomin. 

Moomin’s expression changed as he took in the scar. It went from shock to sadness. “Oh, Snufkin,” cried Moomin. “The scar, it’s—worse than I expected.”

Snufkin just nodded. There wasn’t much to say. 

As Moomin began applying the pungent-smelling balm, Snufkin did not bother looking at the scar itself. He instead focused on Moomin. Moomin, bent in his bedside chair, who was applying it with deep focus and carefulness. There was only the lightest pressure of his hands. The same way he’d applied Snufkin’s bandages those first few days: with a tenderness clearly indicative of a desire not to hurt Snufkin. 

As if it were even possible for Moomin to really hurt him, Snufkin thought, watching Moomin. 

Moomin looked up, and caught Snufkin’s gaze. They both smiled, in that quiet unplanned way that sometimes happens when you least expect it. 

“I hope the pain lessens now,” muttered Moomin. “It better.”

Snufkin chuckled. He had a deep sense of comfort floating through him, now. His body felt at ease here, in this warm room, with this dear creature next to him. 

Snufkin said, “This pain will not last, Moomintroll. It is nothing compared to the rest of everything, you see.” 

It came out as a surprise to himself, further so upon realising he truly meant it. 

But oddly enough, Moomin did not look comforted. He stared down at his hands, brow oddly furrowed. He’d been the optimistic one about Snufkin’s attack, the one looking forward; Snufkin knew now, like remembering something vital, that Moomin too had worries about him. 

Moomin said, so quiet Snufkin leant forward to listen, “I wish I could wish for you to be safe every time you leave. I wish I could guarantee it.”

At the admission—so similar to how Snufkin felt about Moomin, Snufkin felt the last shreds of his fear fading away. At least for now. 

There was a smile in his voice so evident that Moomin looked up to gaze at him, as Snufkin said, “Yes. I’ve wished the same for you. But you needn’t worry about me, Moomin. Even,” at this Snufkin’s heart quickened, from knowing he spoke only a deep, inner truth, “Even if the worst happens, and I die tomorrow, then, well. I’ve lived a very good life. A lucky life for a tramp like me. I’ve been loved and I’ve loved back. I’ve known _you_.”

Moomin gaped at him. 

Snufkin’s reticence caught up to him, and he blushed. His hands fidgeted, and he looked the other side, out the window. Perhaps he’d said too much. 

But then Moomin took his hand with such feeling that Snufkin jolted his head back to look at him. Moomin enveloped him in a hug, pushing his head on Snufkin’s shoulder. 

“Snufkin,” said Moomin. He seemed lost for words. “Snufkin,” he said again. 

Snufkin laughed, outright this time, and hugged him back. 

The scar had stopped paining sometime in their conversation, when he wasn’t paying attention.

 

* * *

 

Too-ticky came to visit. “I heard from Teety-woo that a bear hurt you,” she said to Snufkin, as they watched the others fuss about in the parlor. 

Snufkin huffed in response, without being able to catch himself. Too-ticky’s mouth quirked up. 

“Word travels around fast, as usual,” said Snufkin. 

“Maybe,” she mildly replied. “But I heard something else too, that you might be interested in.”

“Do tell,” said Snufkin, bemusedly looking at her. 

Too-ticky’s eyes slid to the others in the parlor, who weren’t paying attention to them, before focusing back on Snufkin. “I heard,” she said, “that that same bear, the cruel one, he’s dead now.”

Snufkin’s heartbeat stopped, then picked up. “What?” He said, barely registering his own voice. 

“Died of _something_. Old age, slipping off rocks, a malicious old heart. Who knows. The owls told me, cause they heard it from the vultures.”

“The vultures,” echoed Snufkin, in disbelief. 

Too-ticky ruffled his hair. “Would it be morbid to call this good news? Ah, well. Thought you ought to know.”

Snufkin nodded, and was quieter than usual the rest of the afternoon. 

 

* * *

 

He and Moomin walked in the forest by moonlight. Moomin seemed to sense he was in a peculiar mood, and did not press him too much. 

Snufkin eventually broke the silence, and told Moomin the news from Too-ticky. Moomin took his hand—like he wasn’t thinking about it—and Snufkin silently marvelled at that. 

“I think that’s good,” said Moomin. “Do you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how to feel about it, Moomintroll. Relief, perhaps.”

Moomin hummed. “Maybe it’s a sign,” he said. 

Snufkin laughed at that. “That happy endings exist, and goodness always wins, and whatnot?”

Moomin nudged him with his shoulder. “A different kind of sign. That you can move on,” he replied. 

Snufkin stopped walking, and turned to Moomintroll. He didn’t let go of his hand. 

He let his expression be unguarded for once; let it express all the rush of fondness and love and tenderness and happiness he felt for Moomin. He let his eyes relax and tell it all. 

Moomin inhaled sharply. His grip on Snufkin’s hand tightened. 

“Move onto what, Moomintroll?” Snufkin said, softly, teasingly. 

“To—to,” Moomin floundered, before squaring his shoulders and continuing, “To the people you love.”

At that, a smile broke out on Snufkin’s expression, wide enough he felt like he was floating. He leant forward, letting his forehead touch Moomin’s. 

“So I will,” he murmured. “So I will.”

He could feel Moomin smile even as his eyes were closed. They stood like that for a while longer, before Moomin, like he couldn’t help it, pulled him into another tight hug. 

“Will this be a habit of yours now?” Grinned Snufkin. 

“If you’ll let it,” said Moomin. 

Snufkin said, sincerely, “I don’t mind. Not at all.”

 

* * *

 

That winter, Snufkin decided to stay. 

Moomin, in shock, told him, “You—you don’t have to sacrifice, or change—”

Snufkin shushed him with a laugh and a finger poking Moomin’s snout. “I want to," he said. "I can’t promise I’ll stay every winter, but I want to try it again this year. Heaven knows a lot has happened.”

Moomin took both his hands, and stared at him, his eyes glimmering. 

“I was thinking,” Snufkin said, pretending he wasn’t flushing over Moomin’s dawning look of joy, “That maybe leaving each year doesn’t need to be a ritual, or a habit. I can see how I feel each year, and play it by ear. Would you prefer that?”

“Oh, yes,” said Moomin. “Very much.”

And then Moomin did something very unexpected, again. 

(Later, Snufkin would muse that Moomintroll could quite honestly find ways to surprise him till the end of time _itself_.)

Moomin leant forward, and he kissed Snufkin. Short and sweet, a blossoming kiss like the springtime. Like morning, like bluebirds, like a wish on the Moon coming true. 

It was their first kiss. 

Moomin said, “This is worth everything to me. Thank you, Snufkin.”

Snufkin, trying to regain his breath, said, “It’s everything to me, too. You, I mean.”

Moomim nodded, smiling helplessly. So was Snufkin. 

That winter, they slept side by side, and Snufkin sometimes woke and marvelled that he lived a life like this now. The scar never hurt—Snufkin didn’t really mind it, not anymore. 

But Mumriks need less sleep in the winter than Moomins. During the time Snufkin was awake while Moomin wasn’t, he began making plans. 

On the first day of spring, he told Moomin, “Let’s build a house.”

Moomin laughed affectionately. “That’s good.”

“I’m serious,” Snufkin said. At his steady voice Moomin’s expression changed, as he looked up at him. 

“Let’s build a house,” said Snufkin, feeling every bit like it was the right thing, “For the two of us to live in. When I’m not here, you can be at Moominhouse. But otherwise, let’s have a house of our own.”

Moomin stared. And _stared_. Snufkin began to feel self-conscious, and like perhaps he’d rushed something. 

“Only if you want to,” he hastily said. 

Moomin leapt up and took his face between both hands. “I want to,” he said seriously, like his life depended upon it. 

This time, when Moomin leant forward, Snufkin was ready, and closed his eyes, smiling.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so, so much for reading!! please do comment, i'll be beyond grateful if you do.  
> HAVE A NICE DAY!! ♡


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